My Ex-Boyfriend's Band

I'd rather say 'bonjour'

I may be a wordsmith wrapped up carefully arranging letters on the page, but I love music because it can be a boundless universal language. For example, Au Revoir Simone, the sorrowful yet sweet Brooklyn trio with a French name. Apparently they sing in preteen girl as well as good ole Texan.

On the last night of SXSW I found myself wandering down Sixth Street, eyes alternating between a crumpled schedule and the mass of green-clad humanity around me. Stagnant lines and disgruntled bouncers blocked the entrance to every showcase. I felt as if the crowd was pushing me west and south, towards a small bar isolated at the end of Congress Avenue and Au Revoir Simone. Though this particular show had been my secret desire all night, it seemed slightly inappropriate. After all, I was leading a group of intoxicated, primarily male Texas Exes around a music festival on St. Patrick’s Day. The vibe wasn’t exactly emo-chick-keyboardists.

Yet Au Revoir Simone was the perfect farewell to a whirlwind week. We showed up at Copa just in time to get drinks and watch the girls set up. It just happened to be the only bar in town that didn’t have a.) a line, b.) a 45 minute drink line or c.) 500 hip and sweaty fans milling in front of a tiny stage. In my opinion, this is the sort of show you must experience at SXSW. Au Revoir Simone sell out headlining shows in Europe but are just now getting foothold in the States. I stumbled across them this winter, fell in love with their sound and prayed they would come through Austin. One prayer had been answered, I could only hope the music lived up to my expectations.

Erika Forster, Annie Hart and Heather D'Angelo truly were angels, badass banged Brooklyn angels, which are the best kind. Standing in a forest of wires and electronic instruments, the three young women blended their voices and chords in a surprisingly organic sound. The ethereal lyrics floated over a thick haze of electric keyboards, hypnotizing, and I never wanted it to end.

Neither did my fraternal crew. When the show did come to a close, more than one was ready to sweep a Simone off her feet. I had a preconceived vision of the indie popsters as an angsty vehicle for feminine power, and they beautifully exceeded my narrow definition. All of us were smiling, from the boisterous cowboys to the Chicago blogger, none of us wanted to say goodbye.

Name the rockstar and win...

My respect. Sorry, this isn't a money maker yet, its not as if actual businesses are sponsoring this crap, so I suppose there is not point in making you guess the answer. But please, humor me.

This was me on Saturday night, dressed as one of my favorite female rockers, Karen O. You know, Karen O? Of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs? Come on guys, who did you think I'd dress as, Britney Spears? I am neither fat nor bald enough to pull of such a stunt.

Cause Friday is a reason

A mere five days after SXSW and I am going out to Emo's. How is this possible? I have been inside all week writing and tending to my pup that just got spayed. But deep down I must admit it's more stupidity than stir crazery that tempts me. Just because I felt like a rabid and run-over raccoon on Sunday does not mean I should take the route of abstinence. However, I have something to prove, and that something is a reckless disregard for my own wellbeing. SXSars be damned, back into the breach I go! Plus I gotta show support to locals Lomita and AM Syndicate, it is the only civilized thing to do.

But just in case this is the music festival and bad decision that finally does me in, I leave you with a few SXSW show picks. I don't know how many I will pick nor do I expect them to have any common theme, but here we go...

The Changes - Some may consider this is cheating because I was in high school jazz band with the lead guitarist and drummer. Really, I shit you not, I was the percussionist, I played a mean marimba and wicked congas. Regardless, these boys are truly talented, formed a band that is both entertaining and earnest, clearly earning their spot on any list of great new artists.

dios (Malos) - I have never seen a more random looking group of perfectly complimentary musicians. P.S. Don't ask about the name, according to Wikipedia, "the band was forced to change their name from dios after heavy metal singer-songwriter Ronnie James Dio filed a cease-and-desist order claiming the name dios was too similar to Ronnie's own band, Dio." I know, ridiculous, and I claim this blog is drama free, so we move on.

Heartless Bastards - I've seen them twice this year, and with each show my insatiable girl crush on Erika Wennerstrom grows deeper. Wennerstorm looks like a librarian, slightly uncomfortable without her books, trying to hide behind a big guitar. Then the sound comes. It is a massive wave of passionate chords, wicked drums and raw lyrics, drowning everything in its path. It was worth buying an overpriced ticket to Lucinda Williams and fighting an endless sea of women in comfortable shows just to hear a few songs from their opening set. I suppose "girl crush" doesn't quit encompass my love for the Bastards.

Now I'm off to drown some more smart cells in Sparks. But don't worry, my writing rarely suffers, I go for the illiterate ones first.

 

A love letter to Margot

Winter in the Midwest is a bitter time. The sky is gray and heavy, flattened steel, holding back the sun, pressing down on your shoulders. The grass is brown and the trees are bare. Each breath is sharp, sending small crystals of frozen air into your aching lungs. How do keep your blood flowing and your body awake? How do you crack the foggy ice that has petrified your mind?

If you are Richard Edwards, a 21-year-old college student living in a dank Indianapolis basement full of spiders and worms, getting in bed at 11 a.m. and sleeping until 9 at night, trying to keep your heart beating through your first break-up, you write a song. Then you write another. You play your guitar. You make something beautiful.

“I’ve always been a writer,” Edwards says, a hint of self-consciousness creeping into his already quiet voice. “And yeah, most songs are about myself, something that is bugging me. That record was not all personal, but it was certainly introspective. I was younger, I was upset about life.”

Unlike most ballads of depression, Edwards’ music begged for something bigger. He began collecting talented musicians, from a classic cellist and trumpet player to a pair of guitar-rocking, drum-beating brothers. Armed with Edwards’ songs and the power of eight inspired players, Margot and the Nuclear So-and-Sos exploded on to the indie rock scene.

I first heard Margot in 2005, when I was struggling to find my way in a new city and a new life. I was a new person, only one year out of rehab for an eating disorder, still struggling with the inertia of my self-destructive impulses. But in this confusing and ugly world I could always escape into the beauty and hope of music. I laid my body on the bed, put “Dust of Retreat” in the stereo and let Margot’s haunting lyrics and unyielding strings lift me up.

There was one song in particular that resonated in the marrow of my bones. It begins with the steady thump of a bass drum, cello and guitar layering on top of it, Edwards’ voice growing from the melody. “On a freezing Chicago street we shook/ Your hands were trembling from all those pills you took/ And we got drunk on cheap red wine in a paper cup.”

It was my Midwestern hometown, it was the oppressive winter, it was that faulty body, it was those easy escapes. Yet this time it was beautiful. All these sad, painful things created beauty.

“And I was barely awake when you got home/ And climbed yourself into bed wearing cheap perfume/ And Sarah screamed, your every breath is a gift/ if you weren't so selfish then you might want to live.”

Yes, selfish. That was the right word. So selfish that you want to throw the pain away. You see the potential, you know what you could make yet you waste it. Not only is every breath a gift, every ache is a blessing and every tear is a promise. Yes, you are lucky to have this pain, to have its power.

“So if your lover should leave don't get too sad/ And don't compose epic poems to win her back/ Cause when your bird has flown, she'll never return home/ Though all your life you'll wait she never will return.”

When Edwards thinks back to the mildewed basement, the girl that got away, the nights that were his days, he is happy. Not content or ready to stop creating, but he is at peace.

“I always had this grand dream,” he says. “As long as you are doing it for the music, I think those goals act like hope. It meant all this had a purpose.”

Even the unbearable, the broken heart, can lead to this. From the cracks in the dark, pulsing muscle a delicate life begins to grow. The heart has already been broken, the sadness has already washed over you, these things will not change. Pull them all together, weave in each disappointment and fear and sharp memory, and you will find something new. These are not endings but a beginning. Make something beautiful.

Birds motto: Walk in, rock out

The Birds Barbershop extravaganza was my first day party at this year's SXSW. I went under the auspice of watching The Rosebuds, a North Carolina band that has been in heavy rotation on my Nano, but I was far more intrigued by the free Mohawks. Gabriel, my wonderful friend from LA, got one and it looked wicked, though I’m sure his girlfriend has whipped out the clippers by now. But dude below went all out, neon shades and all. Punk on, my friend, punk on.

A thousand words are better

But until I get my reviews going, this SXSW shot says a lot, just click on it to see the full view. You can check out the rest of the pics at my SXSW Flickr set.

The badge of dishonor

You know it’s gonna be a good story when it stars a band called The Trashies. SXSW Music has infamous badge-wristband, fan-industry, local-NYLA clashes that have been thoroughly hashed out in ink and pixels and don't need further explanation. But I knew that to get the access I needed I had to find a coveted badge, and as a broke writer familiar with broke musicians I figured my best bet was to buy an artist's badge. After a couple trips to Craigslist I finally found my seller-to-be. Our Gmail conversations went something like…

Andrew: “So you are for sure 100% into this? I just don’t want to arrive in Austin and get these and not have someone buy them.”
Me: “Yes, 100%, if you can give me a guarantee that they'll be available I can do the same back."
Andrew: “Ok, you are my lady for this.”
Me: “I'm your lady, you are my man.”

Thus Andrew and I made our hipster e-oath and planned to meet at 6 p.m. on Wednesday, right before my first interviews and his showcase with Seattle-based rockers The Trashies. They have a track called “Sweatpants Boner.” Please refer to the link above for a sampling of their sweet sound, which they claim is influenced by Cheeto dust and bong resin.

At 4:45 p.m. on Wednesday I got a phone call from dear Andrew. Apparently The Trashies van would not make it in to Austin until 11:30 p.m. West Texas cops can spot any car driven by outsiders from 5 miles out, and once those beady eyes catch a glimpse of unfamiliar plates the poor bastards don’t have a snowball’s chance in Odessa. Good thing The Trashies got taken out, because them Washington boys brought marijuana and pills into God’s country, and the only people that are allowed to do that are the Mexicans. So off to jail the lead guitarist went and the boys couldn’t bail him out until the morning.

Around midnight Andrew and I finally met at the Convention Center, cash and credentials in hand, closing my brief but passionate relationship with The Trashies. Perhaps the saddest chapter of this sad story is that the band missed their 10 p.m. showcase at Beerland. But they did play Snake by Snake Pit on Friday, along with Steaming Wolf Penis, another Seattle band that just happened to sell their badge to my friend’s sister. Who do you think looked cooler, me as a Trashy or Little Lee with Steaming Wolf Penis dangling from her neck?

In the beginning there was Taylor Hicks

How many Austin indie music blogs are inspired by Taylor Hicks? I think it is safe to assume this is the only one. Despite what the name initially implies, no, I did not date the worst contestant, not to mention winner, from the world's most painful reality show. I shiver at the very thought. But Mr. Hicks did throw me into a moment of impassioned disgust that was the final tipping point for My Ex-Boyfriend's Band.

I had already decided to quit my job at the local daily newspaper to pursue freelancing and work on my master's thesis. I liked my job, but it was time to move on. I knew I made the right decision when I got an email saying my final arts pick could not run due to advertising conflicts. Sure, it rubs me the  wrong way knowing journalism, even entertainment journalism, is dictated by financial concerns. But the final blow to my already wounded heart came when I was told to rewrite the hip SXSW party item as... Taylor Hicks playing at the Rodeo. Taylor f-ing Hicks. Are you f-ing serious? As a moral person I cannot possibly recommend anyone see Taylor Hicks for any reason. Ever. And to do so during the musical binge that is SXSW is surely a deadly sin.

So now I sit in my room, officially a freelancer, trying to recooperate from and somehow process the week that was SXSW, grateful it was free of all things remotely American Idol.